do not kill my sons
for who is the you
who do not like what they do
where no one else can see
do you not crucify me too
do not kill my sons'
identities for when
they're slaves or free
or when they're sold or not
your eyes keep finding them
blistered under the sun
behold in loincloths of old
in white quarry dust
who is the you with
the whip in your hand
snarling at their brittle skin
do not strip my sons
of their worth as men
with grit and stones
of different size and sound
in the crusher of your mind
in my heart men like white
stones hide from you
who do not like what they do
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A precious poem! Here is revealed the humane fantastic side of thy insightful thoughtful meditative you! Elke woord is die moeite werd! Thank you.Yuh's the great wonderful poet!